Advent
by Poseidon - God of the Seas
Summary: A series of short stories - one a day for every day of December. The delightful idea of Hades and Spockologist.
1. Intent

_Author's Note: This is my story for December 1st. It's based on MyelleWhite's prompt, "I never intended this to happen". It explores Holmes's relationship with Watson and his attitudes to emotion. It has a surprising amount of angst. I welcome reviews, suggestions or corrections!_

Intent

We had solved the mystery of the Sign of the Four. Now Watson and I sat in silence, contentedly smoking. The mystery had exhilarated me for days: I was finding it increasingly difficult to sleep in the nights, because I found it impossible to suppress my thoughts about the case. I refused to tell Watson about my occasional insomnia. It could only worry him – particularly when I effected my own pharmaceutical solution. The good doctor could not understand that a man such as I might use these drugs (morphine, cocaine, opium) as tools; with none of the risk of dependence that one observed in others. Dependence was what I feared – feared above all else. I had observed so many times how weak, emotional dependence could frustrate the intellect. I had meticulously explained this to Watson, but he did not understand me. I refused to let emotion control my life and overwhelm my mind.

"Well, and there is the end of our little drama," said Watson. "I fear that it may be the last investigation in which I shall have the chance of studying your methods. Miss Morstan has done me the honor to accept me as a husband in prospective."

My stomach plunged towards my feet, and I accidentally scattered smouldering ash from my pipe onto the armchair. Inadvertently, I groaned. The shock! – I could not have prepared for the shock. After our years of friendship… years of my friend's faithful companionship… the only other whom I trusted as I trusted myself was to leave my life. Watson looked at me with distress, so I rushed to say something.

"I feared as much," I said, trying to restrain the emotion from entering my voice. "I really cannot congratulate you."

"Have you any reason to be dissatisfied with my choice?" he asked. He looked wounded.

I groaned again, but quietly.

"Not at all," I said. "I think she is one of the most charming young ladies I ever met, and might have been most useful in such work as we have been doing. She had a decided genius that way: witness the way in which she preserved that Agra plan from all the other papers of her father. But love is an emotional thing, and whatever is emotional is opposed to that true cold reason which I place above all things. I should never marry myself, lest I bias my judgment."

It was all true: these were my attitudes, and this was how I intellectually felt. I could not express the contemptible, emotional reason for my dismay. For I knew Watson did not think of it as abandonment. He was my only friend. And now he was leaving.

"I trust," he said, laughing, "that my judgment may survive the ordeal. But you look weary."

"Yes," I forced myself to say, "the reaction is already upon me. I shall be as limp as a rag for a week."

"Strange," he said, "how terms of what in another man I should call laziness alternate with your fits of splendid energy and vigor."

I spoke without attention for a time, quoting lines of old Goethe; I remembered my friend liked to hear me speak them. We spoke a little of the case's details, of details that I could recall without feeling. I did not want to feel anything.

"The division seems rather unfair," Watson remarked. "You have done all the work in this business. I get a wife out of it, Jones gets the credit, pray what remains for you?"

I had introduced Watson to Miss Morstan, and I had led him through our investigation. I had brought him close to her. I had given them the prerequisites for that ineffable mystery – love. I never intended this to happen. I looked spitefully at my friend.

"For me," I said, "there still remains the cocaine bottle." And I reached my hand out for it.


	2. Giant Rat

_A/N: Silly story because I'm pressed for time. Mrs Pencil prompted me to write about Holmes meeting the giant rat of Sumatra._

"Fiend!" ejaculated Sherlock Holmes.

He was a young man – he had yet to meet Dr Watson, yet to establish his reputation as a sleuth. He was more impulsive then, and prone to shouting things during conflict. He was fighting a generically evil man on the deck of a ship near Sumatra.

"_Au contraire, mon petit pois_," said Renard Enloit, the (inconceivably villainous and French) French villain of this encounter. "You do not under-zztand ze magnitude of your pray-dicamont. [sic]"

Holmes leapt back in horror, as an enormous rat leapt from beneath Renard's robes. It was a terrible creature, at least ten times the normal size, with bloodstained jaws and a devilish look to its eyes. Holmes responded instinctively: he flung himself to the deck, evading the rat's teeth.

The rat sailed over Holmes's head in a graceful parabola, plummeting off the ship and into the ocean far below.

"Nooooooo!" cried Renard.

"!"

And thus did Holmes conclude the tale of the giant rat of Sumatra.

Watson's addendum: in those early days, due to his excessive drug usage, Holmes would often mistake other animals for rats. I suspect something similar happened in Sumatra.

Holmes's addendum to Watson's addendum: WHAT ON EARTH DO YOU MEAN "IMPULSIVE" I AM SHERLOCK HOLMES DAMNIT DAMNIT DAMNIT NEED COCAINE!


	3. Warmth

_A/N: Sad fic. I swear, one of these days I'll find the time to write something involving deduction. Because that's kind of an important thing to miss in a story about Sherlock Holmes… inspired by Deb Zorski's prompt, "[w]armth"._

He slept restlessly by the fireplace, dreaming of old glories from another age. This was his first winter alone. It was his first winter in the hospice. He dreamed of old mysteries; of old foes; of old friends. He had had too few friends. Only now, near the end of his life, did he realise this. Mrs Hudson, his beloved housekeeper, had died long ago. Those halcyon days… his halcyon daze… wordplay was one of few pleasures he retained.

His friends at Scotland Yard had married, retired then died. His noble blood had proved superior: he had outlived them all. The Baker Street Irregulars had found homes, or created their own. His eyes flickered in sympathy with the fire.

His truest friend was John H Watson MD. Oh… John…

Sherlock Holmes began to quietly cry.

He could see the fire in front of him, but he could not feel its warmth.


	4. Highlands

_A/N: I think the Marquess of Queensbury rules would have been in place way before Watson would be old enough to box, but let's stretch time for the sake of a story. This prompt came from Sui Generis Paroxysm._

"You are clearly a boxer, my dear Watson – and clearly an adherent of the older traditions," said Sherlock Holmes.

I had but recently moved into our quarters in 221B Baker Street, and was startled by my friend's deduction.

"May I enquire as to how you made that surmise, Holmes?" asked I.

"Certainly," said he. "I observed your trim physique, particularly your pectoral muscles and your biceps. From this I could imagine several sports in which you might partake, but only bare-knuckle boxing could be the cause for the distinctively worn skin around your fists and fingers. This deduction was supported by your delightful Scottish accent: I am aware that the sport, considered uncouth in England, remains a fixture in your Highland home."

At this point I collapsed into laughter, causing Holmes to stare at me in exasperation.

"Really, Watson, I should not think it so amusing that I observed something so—"

"No doubt you are ingenious," I interrupted, "but you do not know the Highlands so well as you presume. I'm not a boxer, Holmes."

"Oh?"

"I toss the caber!"


	5. Cherrywood

_A/N: Thanks to Hades for beta-reading. I worry that the surprise in this one might be too easy to miss… but we'll see. Based on Scarper Gallywest's prompt: "Mrs. Hudson once left a cherrywood-handled umbrella in the town of Leicester. Why?"_

"He was an unimpeachable hero, although I never met him in person," said the white-haired diplomat, Lord Blacke.

Sherlock Holmes felt the same uneasiness he had felt for the past three days. There had been a paucity of interesting mysteries, so he had returned to an old unsolved case – like a dog returning to an old, tough bone. His investigations had taken him across the length of England, to Lord Blacke's stately home in Leicestershire. And something – some subtle, significant thing – was wrong.

He was investigating Mrs Hudson's past. He felt guilty at invading her privacy, but he could not resist his curiosity. His landlady refused to tell him about it. He knew only that her husband had died three decades ago, somehow serving the country during the Indian Rebellion. Through painstaking research, Holmes had established that Martin Hudson had been a covert agent for the civil service. Yet Holmes could not find anyone who had met the man. Even his direct superior during the Rebellion, Lord Blacke, claimed to know Hudson through correspondence only.

"Is there nothing more?" asked Holmes, staring at Lord Blacke. "Why can I not read your correspondence for myself?"

The eminent diplomat returned Holmes's gaze; if he felt any emotion, he hid it skilfully.

"It remains classified," said he. "I refuse to compromise it."

"You force me towards coercive methods of persuasion, my Lord. It is exceedingly unlikely that such outdated communications can threaten our nation; so I conclude that your refusal is to hide an indiscretion of your own. I shall inform my brother – that is right, _Mycroft_ Holmes, you know him – and have him send me the facsimiles within the week. It is regrettable for me, because I shall have to wait; and it is regrettable for you, because your aforementioned indiscretion will become known to my brother."

"Damn you!" exclaimed Lord Blacke, his teeth clenching together. "Take the letters, if you swear to secrecy."

"I cannot swear that without foreknowledge of their contents."

"There is nothing in them of interest to the nation, nor to any other person besides myself and the late Martin Hudson."

With that, Lord Blacke walked to his safe and removed several reams of paper. He sorted through the contents, eventually reaching a worn foolscap folio. He placed it in Holmes's hands.

"The 'indiscretion' is that Hudson and I were lovers," said Lord Blacke.

Holmes was flabbergasted. "You— but he— but—"

"Yes; no wedding ring adorns my finger, as I expect you observed. I shall trust to your secrecy, Mr Holmes."

"You may trust it," said Holmes, passing the folio back to Lord Blacke without reading it. "You were correct, my Lord: some things should remain secret, for the sake of his widow, yourself and the late Mr Hudson."

"I am glad you understand."

Holmes, still shocked, left the office. Lord Blacke grinned wryly, and then looked at a cherrywood handle woman's umbrella that he kept in the room. It had belonged to Hudson. It was his treasured reminder of their time together. Composing himself, Lord Blacke began to write.

_Martha Hudson_

_221 Baker Street_

_Marylebone_

_London_

_Dear Martha,_

_As you predicted, your curious friend – despite horrifically breaking your privacy – had a certain valour that prevented him from investigating further. The fiction of Martin Hudson shall remain intact. Your service to your country shall remain a secret._

_Yours forever,_

_Arthur_

Lord Blacke had only ever loved one person. And he loved her still.


	6. Grumbling in Pubs

_A/N: Two detectives and a rabbi walk into a bar. Scarper Gallywest's prompt._

It was a grimy, beer-sodden place; a public house favoured by impoverished officers of Scotland Yard when they wanted to escape after a day's work. There was variety to the clientele, though: even a grey-bearded rabbi sat at the bar, repetitively drinking gin.

"I hate him sometimes," said Gregson to Lestrade.

"And I, and I," replied Lestrade, drinking from his pint of ale.

"Stupid bloody – _hic _– disguises work every time, and he always catches the criminal."

"And he's always so damnably… uh… smug."

"Stupid bloody disguises."

"Smug git."

Gregson and Lestrade bought another pint each.

"Good thing we can escape him here, eh?"

"Yeah, wouldn't see the smug—"

—**CRASH!**

The drunken rabbi fell to the ground, his beard tearing away from his face to reveal Sherlock Holmes.

"The bloody disguises don't work every time," he said sadly.


	7. Walking on Ice

_A/N: I like to imagine that Holmes enjoys lame jokes/puns. Based on Catherine Spark's prompt: "walking on ice"._

I had but returned from a typically busy winter day, visiting several of my patients who had fallen ill to seasonal flus and fevers. I hung my coat near the door of 221B, and then ascended the stairs to our lodgings.

"Holmes," I asked, "Are you here?"

He gave no reply, but I did not need him to give one; for when I opened the door at the top of our stairs I revealed a room with a shimmering floor, covered in thick ice. I involuntarily gasped, but before I could speak, Holmes skated out of his bedroom and into our now-icy living room.

"Look at it, Watson!" exclaimed he. "Is it not beautiful?"

"Well, Holmes, it _is_ impressive… but may I ask… _why_?"

Holmes's face darkened.

"I attempted to walk on some ice outside, but found it inadequate to support my weight. Walking on thin ice is never a good idea, my dear Watson; so I chose to create my own, superior alternative."

He gleamed with an innocent, childlike joy. I was reluctant to destroy this, but I knew my duty. I stepped up onto the ice platform, and carefully approached my friend.

"Holmes… you encased our floor in ice, because you could not walk on the thin ice outside."

"Precisely, Watson!"

"You stand upon thick ice now, and I commend you; but have you considered our poor Mrs Hudson's reaction?"

"Oh." Holmes's smile sank into a frown. "Oh dear."

I patted him on the shoulder. Then, surprisingly, his smile returned.

"I suppose," he chortled, "that I am still walking on _thin ice_!"


	8. Gingerbread Men

_A/N: This one's an intentional puzzle. I'm not sure whether to put the answer in the story itself, later on, or leave it in the comments. Anyway, see if you can figure it out. Based on Spockologist's prompt: "gingerbread men"._

Watson and Mrs Hudson painstakingly created their Christmas treat for Sherlock Holmes. Only those close to him knew that the consulting detective had a sweet tooth – so his two friends had spent the day preparing a large tray of gingerbread men. Their limbs splayed out, the gingerbread men happily danced on the tray.

"Wonderful," said Watson. "Holmes will love these."

"At last!" exclaimed Mrs Hudson. "A present he can enjoy, but won't guess before receiving."

They placed the gingerbread men in a box and wrapped it.

On Christmas Day, Holmes took their present and stared at the box. He rocked it from side to side, eyes focused on the paper and ears straining to hear how the contents moved.

"Well done!" cried Holmes. "Well done to you both. This is the first gift to surprise me."

He tore the paper away, and then ripped the box open. His eagerness reminded Watson of a child. His reaction, however, was one of dismay. Holmes's face became pale, and he pursed his lips together.

"Oh," he said weakly.

"What is it, Holmes?" asked Watson.

"I—I apologise to you both. But I ca—cannot bring myself to eat these. What you did was unintentional, but now I must be alone. I am sorry."

Before Mrs Hudson or Watson could intercept him – ask him to stay or to explain – Holmes strode to the door and left 221B.


	9. Scarf

_A/N: __Based on Deb Zorski's prompt, "scarf". Mycroft has to pretend to like his present._

"Allow me, brother mine," said Sherlock Holmes to his obese brother, Mycroft.

Mycroft waved Sherlock away with his surprisingly baleen hands, tutting as he did so.

"No, no, I am so thankful for your present; but I have no need of your assistance."

"I made it myself," said Sherlock, grinning impiously.

"So I deduced," replied Mycroft.

And with that, Mycroft took the clumsily-made green scarf, and wrapped it around one of his numerous chins. He squirmed uncomfortably as he did so – for the scarf barely reached around his voluminous throat. When, finally, it encircled him, Mycroft cautiously smiled at his younger brother.

"Wonderful!" exclaimed Sherlock.

"Now run along, brother mine. Even on Christmas, the government has need of my assistance."

Sherlock skipped away, reciting lines of old Goethe under his breath.

"Oh, thank God!" cried Mycroft as he tore the scarf from his throat. "Only for family..."


	10. The Ecstasy of Swiss Pine

_A/N: Watson is top dawg. Based on sagredo's prompt. "It's two days before Christmas, and not a single tree is left to be had in London. Or is there? Luckily for Mrs. Hudson, her (in) famous lodger is perhaps the only man now capable of finding one. Can Holmes be coerced into doing so? And, does he bring back a 'Charlie Brown' tree?"_

It was the first Christmas I had spent in 221B Baker Street since Holmes's sudden return to my life – a return, almost, from his own death. We had once again taken lodgings with our loyal housekeeper, Mrs Hudson. This familiarity was why our landlady came to us with an unorthodox request, and why we felt obliged to help her.

"My apologies for it, gentlemen. As you know, I habitually leave the two of you to yourselves: I do not interfere with your investigations, nor your... delightful... violin music, nor your other... habits." Mrs Hudson looked disapprovingly at the bullet holes in the wall, which formed the letters "VR". "You've always paid me handsomely and punctually. This one time, however, I must ask you to do something more."

Holmes drew a breath through his pipe, then removed it from his mouth. He looked lazily at Mrs Hudson and nodded – the nod presumably signifying his assent for her to continue speaking.

"Er..." she began. "I want a Christmas tree."

Holmes raised his eyebrow.

"And I can't find one in the whole of London!"

Holmes raised the other eyebrow before speaking.

"My dear Mrs Hudson, I find that exceedingly unlikely." He stopped talking, and stared at her. Before she spoke, however, he clapped his hand to his temple. "I have had a brilliant thought! I shall procure you a tree, should you promise to arrange the repair of my intolerable living quarters."

Mrs Hudson glared at him, but remained silent. After some moments of thought, she nodded.

"Wonderful!" exclaimed Holmes. "Please follow me, Watson, and bring your revolver."

He rose from his lethargy, springing from his chair to the front door of 221B. I moved somewhat more reluctantly, for I had overindulged at Christmas dinner. For this reason I was reluctant, but also because of my trepidation about my revolver. Evidently, Holmes expected trouble. By the time I left 221B, Holmes had hailed a hansom cab. We climbed into the vehicle, and Holmes ordered the driver to visit an address in Clerkenwell.

"In order to get this tree, Watson, we shall have to revisit the abode of the greatest schemer of all time." He smirked as he said this, perhaps reminiscing. "We shall take our tree – from Professor Moriarty!"

"Holmes," said I, "what are you talking about? Moriarty died at Reichenbach."

"Of course," said he, "and what use can a dead professor have for his precious Swiss pine?"

"So we intend trespass."

"Trespass on the estate of a scoundrel," said Holmes. "It will give me much satisfaction to take something from my greatest foe."

We fell silent, and within a few minutes, the cab arrived at the estate of the late Professor Moriarty. It was an expansive townhouse, matched by its large, overgrown grounds. A rusty iron fence surrounded those same grounds, although we easily managed to bend apart the bars. We walked through this newly-made entrance, I following Holmes to our prize. I was not disappointed. The tree was a magnificent specimen, at least ten feet tall, with ample room for all Mrs Hudson's ornaments.

"I was pessimistic when I told you to bring your revolver, Watson. Clearly, the man had no friends or kin to inherit."

"A lonely existence, yes; but let us return to the business of uprooting this behemoth."

My friend scowled.

"Watson, I am afraid I overlooked that."

Exasperated, I turned to Holmes.

"Do you mean to tell me, Holmes, that you brought nothing in the way of tools? No axe, nor a saw, nor even a _spade_?"

"I fear I am a through-and-through urbanite, my dear Watson. The thought never occurred to me."

"You mean," I said, "you had the foresight to remember my revolver, but brought _nothing _to move the tree?"

I was incredulous and frustrated. A journey to 221B and back would require us to return in darkness. I was not even certain we had the tools to move the tree: Mrs Hudson's gardening was limited to orchids.

Crestfallen, Holmes nodded.

"We shall have to return to 221B," he sighed.

"No!" I exclaimed. I was determined that, if we were to take the tree, we should take it now.

"Watson," said he, "I admire your warriorlike stubbornness. Nonetheless, I do not think we can move this tree without tools."

Suddenly, I had a revolutionary moment of insight into our problem.

"We shall simply have to buy a saw on the morrow," Holmes continued.

I drew my revolver.

"And– Watson! What are you doing?"

I fired six shots into the trunk, each shot punctuating Holmes's confused bellow.

"WHAT"

**BANG!**

"ARE"

**BANG!**

"YOU"

**BANG!**

"TRYING"

**BANG!**

"TO"

**BANG!**

"DO?"

**BANG!**

Holmes silently looked at me for a moment. Then, the trunk began to creak.

"Move," I said.

Holmes moved aside just as the tree trunk split. The tree crashed into the space where he had stood. Holmes stared at me in disbelief.

"Maiwand Christmas," I said.

I twirled the smoking revolver around my index finger before returning it to its holster.


	11. Wounded Elephants

_A/N: More of Watson being top dawg. Hades's prompt. Holmes receives a temporary shoulder injury, and is forced to appreciate Watson's pain._

Watson and Holmes chased the ingenious acrobat robber, Jack McCrary, across the rooftops of London.

"For God's sake, Watson, _keep up_!" cried Holmes.

Watson tried – he truly did – but his left shoulder hurt so badly that he was forced to stop. Holmes ran on without him, but was unable to apprehend the gymnastic burglar. Holmes and Watson returned to 221B Baker Street emptyhanded, bickering about the chase.

"We nearly had him, Watson! If only your physique were less like my brother's, and more like my own..."

"What? This had nothing to do with my physique, Holmes; my surrender was entirely the result of my war injuries. Maiwand scarred me, Holmes, in ways you will never know."

"Nonsense, Watson. So the poor _sahib_ had to be carried around by his porter for a few days. I expect you enjoyed the attention. I _know _you enjoy the attention now: it is nauseating to hear you exploit your old war stories."

"Holmes," Watson growled.

"Frankly, I think we should have been better off giving Maiwand away! You didn't even win!"

"Holmes," Watson repeated, his clipped voice betraying his anger.

"I know precisely what it would be like to suffer your wounds, because you suffered nothing! Humans don't even have nerves in their shoulder!"

"HOLMES!" Watson bellowed like a wounded elephant (and he knew that sound well, because in Maiwand he had... never mind), drawing his revolver and turning it on Sherlock Holmes.

"Uh-oh–"

Watson fired the revolver once into Holmes's shoulder, still bellowing, still like a wounded elephant.

"Aaaaaaagh!" Holmes shrieked. "THIS **REALLY** HURTS!"

And so, in 221B that evening, two metaphorical elephants bellowed: one wounded mentally, the other physically.


	12. Mathews of Charing Cross

_A/N: Drabbles are difficult. I'm too verbose, I fear. Sui Generis Paroxysm's prompt: "Write a drabble with Matthews, from the Charing Cross waiting room. This could be anything—maybe how Holmes lost his left canine, maybe afterwards, maybe before, whatever you decide."_

"Do you not see?" exclaimed Sherlock Holmes. "A medical doctor – you would be ideal."

He was in the waiting room of Charing Cross Hospital, where he had heard from Stamford that he might find a lodging partner.

"No," said Dr Mathews, "I think not."

"Why?"

"From your gauntness, and the needle marks upon your left arm, I deduce all I need know about you."

"My cocaine usage angers you." Holmes's eyes lit. "It reminds you of someone close. Your… sister."

Mathews's fist burst into Holmes's jaw, knocking him to the ground. Holmes spat his left canine out, then silently left.


	13. Understated Love

_A/N: Typically, after finding it difficult to make a drabble short enough, I found it hard to make this story long enough. Based on Spockologist's prompt: "Write about Watson's proposal to Mary"._

"Mary Morstan, I have grown to love you because of your courage, kindness and beauty. Please, will you marry me?"

Watson kneeled on one knee, offering Mary a golden ring. Startled, Mary looked from his face to the ring – then back to his face.

"John, I love you," she said. "Yes."

All that need be said has been said.


	14. Maiwand Christmas

_A/N: This one is kind of dark, and Watson's behaviour isn't entirely in-character. It explains our Boswell's preoccupation with the elephant, and gives an insight into the traumas he endured in Maiwand. A sidenote: Maiwand can become cold enough for snow, but it would be very unusual to have enough precipitation for significant snow – let alone a blizzard. But… I wanted a white Christmas. Based on sagredo's prompt, "write about the sort of Christmas Watson experienced while in Afghanistan"._

Maiwand Christmas.

The land was blanketed in white drifts of snow. The freakish blizzard had assaulted Watson's regiment ten days ago. Their native guides had abandoned them, walking out into the snow. Watson tried to stop one of them – his loyal porter, Sharif – but Sharif spat in Watson's face and called him a fool. The porters abandoned them, taking their food and their winter furs. Since then two of Watson's fellow officers had died from hypothermia. All the soldiers suffered frostbite, to a greater or lesser degree.

The captain took Watson aside from the rest of the regiment. "We are starving, John," he said. "We cannot continue without food. I hesitate to suggest it – the horror! – but the natives may turn to cannibalism."

"I assure you, captain, that such horror cannot befall us. One reason I offer you is this: I have come to know the men of this regiment like my brothers, and I _know_ that they would choose to die together before breaching that demonic taboo. We would _slaughter_ the natives should they try such a thing. The other reason is that the porters left us and took our food. I suspect they are eating it in some warm cave. I wager they are laughing, laughing at the idea of our regiment starving to death."

The captain regarded Watson with watery, listless eyes. "Watson," he said, licking his lips, "as you are a medical man, I can trust you to do this properly. Please kill me."

Watson contemplated this for a long time, wrestling with the dilemma as he had once wrestled cabers in his Highland home. But this was no cheerful sport: the trajectory of this figurative caber could decide a man's death. It was, Watson reflected, more like the equally antiquated sport of shin kicking: each of his options (kill/don't) caused pain when he considered them. So he vacillated between them. Or perhaps his problem could be more accurately compared to—

The captain placed a loaded revolver in Watson's hands. "Do it," he urged. "Kill me now."

Watson slowly raised the revolver, cocking the hammer and preparing to execute his duty by executing his superior. He stopped, awestruck, staring over the captain's shoulder.

"An elephant!" cried Watson. "We are saved! An elephant! An elephant!"

Watson aimed and fired the revolver. It made a loud bang when it discharged, and the elephant began to scream while blood poured from its face. It was a sickening bellow – the benchmark against which Watson would compare all future tragedy – which contorted Watson's stomach and strained his ears. He began to cry.

It was the sickening sound of survival.


	15. Swollowing the Truth

_A/N: I was inspired by a review Marie Nomad left me. I've had characters do certain things that are just unbelievable. Now, they must all pay the ultimate price. Note: Holmes may not be entirely in-character. A response to Spockologist's prompt: "Mycroft has been the target of a series of harmless pranks. Who is the culprit?"_

Mycroft suffered twelve practical jokes on the twelve successive days of Christmas. On the first day, someone stole his favourite shoes. On the second day, someone snuck into the Diogenes club's cloakroom and stuck feathers to his umbrella. On the third day, someone painted "FAT" in 12 foot tall white letters on the side of his home. On the fourth day, someone stole his mince pies from the Diogenes club pantry. On the fifth day, someone threw a brick at his window. Things continued in this vein until the twelfth day, when Mycroft encountered his assailant in the dark, lonely bathroom of the Diogenes club. Mycroft's brilliant mind had long ago deduced the culprit.

"Please, o antagonist, I know that you are hiding in the last bathroom stall. I know that you intend to trip me over when I visit the lavatory."

There was no reply.

"I even know who you are."

A muffled voice called, "Who?"

"You are," said Mycroft with a flourish, "the one and only consulting detective. My brother. Sherlock Holmes."

Holmes stepped out of the stall, grinning at his brother. "Bravo!" he exclaimed. "I never expected you to deduce my identity. I randomly chose these pranks – in fact, I must apologise for their uncouth nature; it was an attempt to conceal my identity from you."

"Yes," said Mycroft. "I knew that only a sociopathic misfit such as my brother would perpetrate such a collection of trivial and tremendous brutalities."

"Unfortunately, I have yet to perpetrate my final such brutality."

"My dear Sherlock, do you really need to do so? Have I not suffered enough, these past eleven days?"

"I randomly chose these pranks, brother mine. The choice would not be truly random if I allowed myself to choose _not_ to do them."

Mycroft pulled awkwardly at his collar. "Sherlock," he said, "please avoid anything… senseless."

"There is no sense to random noise, brother mine."

Sherlock swiftly drew a revolver, aimed at Mycroft's shoulder and fired. There was a loud boom, and then Mycroft screamed (if Watson were there, he would have known what to compare it with: the bellow of a wounded elephant). Mycroft's shoulder was blown into a tattered red mess – injury enough for a doctor to be urgently required.

Sherlock ran to Watson's practice, interrupted his consultation with a patient, and then rapidly explained what he had done to Mycroft. Watson listened to the entire story and then – to Holmes's surprise – began to laugh.

"I'm sorry," he said, "but I have a hard time swollowing this. I can see you punching Mycroft or maybe even threatening to choke him but flat out shooting him in the shoulder? No. A shot to the shoulder is more dangerous than it sounds and I just can't see you doing that to your older brother."

"I thought," said Holmes with a deadpan expression, "that there were no nerves in the shoulder."

Watson's face fell. He fell to his knees, turned his face to the sky, and bellowed like a wounded elephant.


	16. Change Places

_A/N: Agatha Doyle's prompt, "Write about what it would be like if Holmes and Watson decided to spend a day living as each other."_

The case of the papers of ex-President Murillo gave me and my friend, Sherlock Holmes, a most singular experience. Events transpired that required unusual subterfuge: events arranged themselves in such a way as to require that he assume my identity for a day – and that I pretend to be the world's only consulting detective. It was a fiendish case. I still do not appreciate its intricacies, and Holmes occasionally cites it as one of his most challenging. We succeeded in solving it, however, and resolved to celebrate as we normally did. That is, by smoking in the living room of 221B Baker Street after dinner.

"You know, Holmes," said I, "it has taught me a lot, pretending to be you."

My companion puffed quietly on his pipe, then turned to stare at me.

"Indeed," I continued, "it has led me to realise the difficulties I have created for you by publicising your work. People have such absurdly demanding expectations – why, the true testament to your skill is that you can still impress them!"

Holmes smiled, then said, "You praise me unduly, Watson. I have learned just as much by masquerading as you."

"How flattering! Why, whatever did you learn?"

"Er… I learned many things." Holmes frowned. "All kinds of things."

"You didn't learn anything from the experience, did you?"

"Not so! I learned…" Holmes paused, "I learned… how short you truly are!"

I stared coldly at my friend.

"Um, and I learned how uncomfortable a moustache is?"

I sighed.


	17. 221B Bacon

_A/N: My first 221B. Based on Spockologist's prompt, "221B - Bacon". _

"I couldn't care less!" exclaimed Mrs Hudson, our long-suffering landlady. "It's perfectly good food, and you _will_ eat it."

Holmes pushed his plate away. "I met a remarkable young man while investigating a recent case in Bayswater. His logic was impeccable, Mrs Hudson. I will not eat this."

Mrs Hudson turned to me. "I suppose that you're backing him in this absurd decision."

"Not at all," said I. "I'm the last man to adopt the customs of the fakir."

"Watson!" Holmes ejaculated. "How dare you call him a fakir? I predict great things for him."

"Bah," I scoffed. "Piffle is the future of that… litigious polemicist. It is easy to know everything when one is a student. He will return to India, cause trouble, then surrender to the Raj."

"Please, Mr Holmes, if you could simply eat—"

Holmes ignored her entreaty. He said, "Your experience of India is tinted – no, _tainted _– by the Empire. I only hope that, when he wrests back control of his nation, young Mohandas remembers us fondly from his time at University College."

I hammered my fist into the table. "He will **never** take power," I bellowed. "Now let us turn to a different subject, I beg you."

Mrs Hudson set a plate in front of Holmes and then said, "Would you please eat the bacon?"


	18. Moving On Out

_A/N: Based on MyelleWhite's prompt, "'I swear if you ever do that again, I will move out!' (Holmes says to Watson)". This makes reference to _Wounded Elephants_, a previous story._

After they visited the hospital and repaired Holmes's shoulder, Holmes asked to talk with Watson.

"I understand that I was overbearing – that I failed to appreciate your old wounds."

Watson nodded righteously.

"However…"

"I cannot say what came over me, Holmes. I mean, punching you I could understand. Maybe I could even justify choking you. But to shoot you in the shoulder – it was just out of character."

"So you understand. I forgive you this once. However, I swear that if you ever do that again, I will move out!"

Watson nodded halfheartedly, wondering where he had left his revolver.


	19. Granada Watsons

_A/N: There are two different Watsons in the Granada series. This explains why. Based on Spockologist's prompt, "The residents of 221b have an unusual Christmas tradition. What is it?"_

"Hold steady, first Watson," said Sherlock Holmes.

"Why do you call me that?" asked Watson.

"Oh… no reason," replied Holmes.

The residents of 221B had an unusual Christmas tradition. After a wonderful meal prepared by their housekeeper, Mrs Hudson, they would retire to the living room for mince pies and brandy. After a few glasses of brandy, it was their custom to play a favourite game of Watson's old regiment. That game was called "William Tell". This game involved placing an apple on one player's head, then having the other player shoot it. A player lost if he shot the other player. So far, neither Watson nor Holmes had lost.

"Really, Watson. I must emphasise the importance of your holding still…"


	20. Hanukkah

_A/N: An unusually sad fic, based on Sui Generis Paroxysm's prompt, "Hanukkah"._

Holmes and I lounged in our living room at 221B, smoking. We had just enjoyed a fine Christmas dinner prepared by Mrs Hudson. The Christmas season seemed to reduce the number of mysteries we encountered: in snows like these, even the hardiest miscreant stayed at home. Holmes did not cope well with this involuntary respite, so I attempted to distract him – and by using one of the very methods I had learned from him. I induced him to pontificate on a subject I knew he held dear – namely, the ineptitude of Scotland Yard.

"There are numerous reasons for their failure, Watson. One reason is that they do not value deduction and forensics; they think of themselves more as moral guardians, to whom such sciences are irrelevant. That will change, soon enough. A second reason is that they will always _want_ some small level of crime. They wish to retain their jobs, so they will systematically ensure that criminals exist. Though however insurmountable, I think this problem is comparatively minor. I expect the force will deter people from the worst crimes, creating new categories of minor, nuisance crimes."

Holmes puffed on his pipe and stared sadly out the window. After some time, we heard a knock on the door. We received a telegram, informing us that Hopkins urgently needed our assistance with a murder investigation in Islington. Holmes eagerly donned his coat, and we set out on foot.

"What about Hopkins?" I asked. "You bemoan the lack of decent policemen, but he seems sharp and devoted."

Holmes sighed. "That failure of the Yard is more insidious. Hopkins is a good investigator, and you are correct that he is atypically devoted. However, the reason he will not thrive in their ranks is the same reason that he is investigating a murder on Christmas day. You see, Watson, Hopkins does not celebrate Christmas. He celebrates Hanukkah."


	21. Shop

_A/N: Based on Reflekshun's prompt, "Shop"._

"Please, Mrs Hudson," said Holmes, "I need your advice."

"Certainly, Sherlock. What's the problem?"

"I need to think of a Christmas present for Watson." The consulting detective looked shamefully towards the floor.

"Sherlock! It's Christmas Eve! For all your genius, how did you fail to anticipate this?"

"I knew he needed a present," said Holmes. "I simply found myself unable to conceive of an adequate one. Consequently, whenever I thought of buying him a gift, I deferred it until I had a better idea of what to buy. Now I find that it is my last opportunity to buy _anything_."

"Well, my dear…" Mrs Hudson mused "… I can only advise you as to how I choose a present. Would that help?"

Holmes nodded.

"You should think about him," she said. "Think about his history, his interests, his habits. Your present needn't be expensive, but it must be relevant to him."

Holmes contemplated this, thinking of his loyal friend's hobbies. Finally, inspiration came to him.

"Mrs Hudson!" he exclaimed. "You saved Christmas!"

"Wonderful," she chuckled. "What do you hope to get him?"

"I cannot think of exactly what, but I know exactly _where. _I am going to a moustache shop!"

Before she could reply, he ran out of 221B into the streets of London.

"Oh well," she sighed. "If anyone can find such a shop, it would be him…"


	22. Fire

_A/N: Based on Hades's prompt, "Fire". Kind of a weird fic._

I returned to 221B after a busy day, filled with visits to patients' houses. I hated to work at this time of the year, because modern medicine remains powerless against the common cold. I can only cheer myself by thinking that in the distant future – say fifty years from now, in 1940 – it will be effortlessly cured. I mused on the themes of scientific progress and hubris as I approached home, where I encountered a more concrete instance of the dual themes.

Smoke billowed from our living room. I rushed inside, fearful for Holmes (whom I had left at 221B earlier that day) and our possessions. The room was choked with smoke and ash, and for a terrible moment I thought Holmes's corpse was seated in his armchair. I realised his body was still alive when I recognised the sounds and movements he was making. Unbelievably, he was playing the violin. I moved to confront him, but because I was lightheaded from the fumes, I was less assertive than I intended.

"Holmes… why is there all the smoke?" I asked. My vision began to wobble in a strangely soothing manner.

Holmes bowed a slow, droning scale on his violin.

"Oh, Watson," he said. "Watson, Watson, Watson. Wat-son. Wat… son… son… Wat… Watson."

"Holmes, I – hehe – do not appreciate your hilarious jokes. Why smoke? How smoke? EXPLAIN TO ME ALL INTRICACIES OF THE SMOKE!"

"We ran out of fire wood," he giggled. "At least, the fire wood I could reach from my chair. So I made do with the bricks of opium that I keep above the fireplace."

I sat down in the other armchair. I knew that I should feel shock, worry, anger or some combination thereof. Instead, I felt mildly perplexed.

"Do you think it could cure the common cold?"


	23. Have Anstruther, Will Travel

_A/N: From Hades, "Why does Anstruther look after Watson's practice?"._

"Anstruther, I am afraid I need you to care for my practice again," said Watson.

"Again?" asked Anstruther. "This is not on, Watson. I need to tend my own practice, after all."

"Oh." Watson looked dejected. "When did you last do it?"

"Three days ago! Aaagh. It is as if you prefer being an author to being a doctor, and as if you prefer being an adventurer to being an author. And, when one considers the service I do you, you show little gratitude."

Watson smiled and nodded, and casually reached for the revolver holstered at his waist.

"Oh, God!" cried Anstruther. "Please, no, don't do that again!"

Watson continued to smile innocently.

"I shall care for your practice," said Anstruther. "Whenever you please. Just please, don't come back."

Watson's smile expanded a little as he turned and walked away, already having forgotten about the vicissitudes of medicine, and thinking about a snappy title for the Boscombe Valley Mystery.

"So," asked Mary later that day, "did Anstruther agree to care for your practice?"

"Yep."

Watson smiled.


	24. Withdrawal

_A/N: Based on Hades's prompt, "Withdrawal"._

Watson approached the bank counter, smiling at the clerk. He was wearing his favourite bowler hat, his favourite grey suit and his favourite revolver holster.

"I should like to make a withdrawal," said Watson. "Let us say… one hundred pounds. My name is John H Watson."

The clerk, intimidated by his ostentatious revolver, took a few minutes to check the bank's records. "I apologise," he said, "but it appears that your account has already exceeded its overdraft limit."

Watson smiled at the clerk. "I cannot gamble without money!"

"Uh, yes, I suppose not, but it would appear that you are unable to withdraw more money…"

Watson continued to smile.

"In fact, I must recommend you speak with the manager immediately. I cannot understand how you accrued so much debt so quickly…"

Watson continued to smile, slowly reaching for the revolver at his waist. Unfortunately, while this approach to life had functioned well in other encounters with disagreeable service personnel, it was inappropriate for use in a bank. Before he even drew the revolver several large men leapt on him, tackled him to the ground and confiscated the gun before sending him to the police.

A few days later, finally free (although horribly indebted), Watson relaxed with Sherlock Holmes in the living room of 221B Baker Street. The police had forbidden him from keeping a gun.

"Whatever is the matter, Watson? I haven't seen your habitual smile in days."

"I suppose," mused Watson, "that I'm going through withdrawal."


	25. Christmas Dinner

_A/N: Based on Agatha Doyle's prompt, "Write about an awkward Christmas dinner between Holmes, Watson, and the Lestrade family"._

221B Baker Street, by a tragic series of coincidences, had to be evacuated for Christmas that year. Consequently Watson, Holmes and Mrs Hudson had Christmas dinner with the young Lestrade family. This was against the better judgement of Mr Lestrade, but once Mrs Lestrade had heard of their plight, she was resolute.

"Nice meat," said Lestrade Jr, hoping to win favour with his mother.

"I suppose it's good," Mrs Hudson conceded.

"I dislike bacon," said Holmes.

"I prefer elephant," said Watson, his eyes misting with nostalgia.

"You _ate_ an elephant?" asked Lestrade Jr II.

"I deduce that this tablecloth is cheap," said Holmes, oblivious to his host's finer feelings.

"Look!" cried Mrs Hudson. "Underneath, the table's _filthy!_"

"It tasted of survival and meat," said Watson.

"The tablecloth was the best we could afford," said Mrs Lestrade, "and so was the meat and we clean things often as we can but—"

"From certain unmistakable clues that I will not deign to explain, I deduce that your second child is adopted, and that Granny Lestrade engaged in adultery." Holmes smiled. "Also, your cheap tablecloth is now torn. Sorry about that."

"What does 'adultery' mean?" asked Lestrade Jr.

"What does 'adopted' mean?" asked Lestrade Jr II.

"I'll just pop home and bring you another tablecloth," said Mrs Hudson, fleeing the table.

Granny Lestrade, Mrs Lestrade, Lestrade Jr and Lestrade Jr II were, by this time, crying in a corner of the room. Mr Lestrade looked at Holmes and Watson with an impotent anger.

"Really!" he cried. "I understand that all the things you said, you said because of your irrepressible respective individual natures. But her leaving the table… that is damned rude. Mrs Lestrade carefully prepared enough food – now there will be too much."

"Oh, I shouldn't worry about that," said Holmes. "A gang of approximately twenty famished orphans should be here in fifteen minutes."

Mrs Lestrade wailed.

"Any elephant meat?" asked Watson hopefully.


	26. Another Holmes Quirk

_A/N: Based on sagredo's prompt, "Write a missing scene from The Blue Carbuncle". It's short, but I couldn't think of much to write._

"Watson," said Holmes, "I fear I must send you in my place to investigate Breckinridge, the goose salesman."

"Certainly," said I. "I quite understand: you are too busy, or have some other pressing reason."

"There is no need for your sarcasm," said Holmes.

I was not sarcastic, but I was curious as to Holmes's meaning, so I remained silent.

"I had hoped your powers of deduction would prove too feeble – but no, evidently not."

"Evidently not," I repeated, enticing Holmes to continue.

"I cannot help it, Watson! Some men fear death, some men fear evil. I can tolerate both – but I _cannot_ tolerate geese."


	27. Endure, Holmes

_A/N: Based on Aleine Skyfire's prompt, "Holmes endures his fandom". I'm sorry, Holmes! I never meant to hurt your feelings!_

"You described me as a drug addict," said Holmes.

"Yes," Poseidon shamefully replied.

"I admit to the occasional overindulgence, but nothing like this. And – my God! – what have you done to Watson? You have misrepresented a gentle, honourable man."

"Yes," Poseidon shamefully replied.

"Of course, he can sometimes wax lyrical about his wartime experiences."

"Yes," Poseidon hopefully replied.

"And this preoccupation with elephants, although it borders on obsession, does amuse me."

"Yes," Poseidon hopefully replied.

"I suppose I shall endure your literary transgressions. Now, please put me in touch with those monstrous writers who decided to have me encounter the 'Human Centipede'."

Poseidon stared awkwardly at Holmes.

"I take it you had nothing to do with that."

"Well… one of those authors was my sister… and it was my suggestion that they write the crossover in at least two cases."

Holmes sighed.


	28. Fencing

_A/N: I admit that I tend to wilfully misinterpret prompts. Based on DetectiveAtWork's prompt, "Holmes teaches Watson to fence"._

Soon after a disastrous mishap when Holmes and I fought the infamous French swordsman (and all-around villain), Renard Enloit, I asked Holmes to teach me to fence. A few days later, we were ready for our first lesson. Holmes carried a large duffel bag as he led me to a nearby park. In it, I presumed, was the equipment we would need. I was excited by my imminent lesson, yet nervous too: I had seen Holmes fence, and I knew him to be a remarkable fencer. I was particularly impressed by his speed – something I worried I would be unable to emulate. My thoughts were interrupted by our arrival at the park, and I readied my mind and body.

"There is an underlying principle to fencing, Watson," said Holmes. "A 'trick', if you will. That principle is this: one fences either to keep something out, or to keep something in."

"I see," said I, exploring this idea with my mind.

"For example, I could erect a fence to keep a pitbull _inside_ a garden. Or I might erect it to keep a pitbull _outside_ the very same garden."

"Very good!" I exclaimed.

"Now," said Holmes, "take some wooden posts and fence panels from the duffel."

I swiftly obeyed.

"I shall pretend to be an aggressive French swordsman," said Holmes, extracting a rapier from the duffel bag. "Now, you pretend to be enclosing me in a fence."

"Alright," said I, prepared to do my best.

"And Watson…" Holmes swished the rapier menacingly "… be quick."


	29. Adventure of the Leprechaun

_A/N: Based on a prompt from Sui Generis Paroxysm: "Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, purple, etc"._

I have mentioned, before now, Holmes's appalling ignorance of astronomy and certain branches of physical science. He saw them as impractical, and I must agree that – for the majority of his cases – this was so. However, having been asked to tell an anecdote to popularise everyday science, I thought I should retell the abortive Adventure of the Leprechaun. There is little substance to it, but it offers a tidy example.

Essentially, the eponymous 'leprechaun' was a short Irishman who stole optical equipment. Holmes had already astounded me and the police with his deductions: it was marvellous how he deduced the criminal's height from the instruments he had chosen to steal, and more marvellous still how he deduced the criminal's ethnicity from his brand of tobacco. While investigating the scene of this latest burglary, though, Holmes stumbled upon a glass prism. He turned it, and gave a yell of surprise when the prism refracted the sunlight into the spectrum of colours that Holmes knew only as a rainbow.

"Watson!" exclaimed Holmes. "It is clear that the culprit left us an accidental artefact from his home. We are fighting an opponent who lives in the very sky, at the end of the rainbow. Our foe is a leprechaun."

It took a long time for me to disabuse Holmes of this, and longer still for Holmes to locate the comparatively mundane burglar. Let this be a cautionary tale: do not limit your knowledge quite so narrowly as did Sherlock Holmes.


	30. Mystery of the Mummy

_A/N: Based on Sui Generis Paroxysm's annoying prompt, "Sphinx, bunny slippers, explosion". Curse you, Sui!_

Holmes had but recently returned from Egypt, investigating the case that I later intend to write as _The Mystery of the Mummy_. He had missed Christmas Day, and I must confess a certain anticipation for his gift to me.

"Here," said Holmes, handing me a brown paper parcel the size of my fist. "A belated Merry Christmas, Watson."

"And you," said I, giving him my own gift.

I received an exquisite carved onyx sphinx. I thanked him for this amazing present, and then asked him to see what I had bought him. He opened the box to find a pair of fluffy slippers, shaped like rabbits. Holmes quickly wore through his slippers: he would often forget he was wearing them, rather than conventional shoes. My hope, I explained, was that these ludicrous slippers would remind him he was wearing inappropriate footwear. Holmes stared at me for a while, and I began to worry my gift was inadequate. Had I chosen something too silly for him?

Then, in my time at Baker Street, I heard the only explosion I was ever cheered by.

Holmes exploded into laughter.


	31. My Little Sherlock: Deduction is Magic

_A/N: Damnit. I never intended that _I _should have to fill my own prompt! "Holmes and Watson are magically transformed into ponies, in order to pursue their investigations in Equestria. (Crossover with My Little Pony: Friendship Is Magic. Try to give this to someone who knows that fandom.)" It's just not fair. Well, this is the final chapter in Advent 2011. Uh, if you're interested in a proper SH/MLP crossover, see _The Adventures of Sherclop Pones_ for something much better than I could write. It's long, too. And for an amazing MLP fic, see _Past Sins_. Thank you for reading so much of my silly, confused work. Please leave reviews, and please forgive me when I respond late. Happy New Year! Poseidon_

Sherlock Holmes and I never suspected that, to solve this case, we should have to change our species and enter a two-dimensional world of sentient ponies. We were first contacted by a lady of radiant confidence and magnanimity, ostensibly a princess in the royal family of an obscure nation somewhere in the Americas called Equestria. She called herself Celestia and, on that first meeting, covered her hair with a white scarf. We began to suspect she had withheld details when, on the ship journey to her country, she revealed her luminescent, rainbow-coloured hair. We _knew_ she had withheld details when we were attacked by an enormous man with red skin and ginger hair, who easily subdued us, then dragged us below deck.

"I am sorry for the dishonesty," said Princess Celestia, her voice sounding genuinely concerned.

And so… we changed.

I became a light brown earth pony, with a stocky physique and (thank heavens!) impressive moustache. While in Equestria, I went under the pseudonym of Clopson. My cutie mark, surprisingly (surprising once I understood what a cutie mark is: a mark on a pony's flank that symbolises their unique talent) had no direct relation to medicine or writing. It was a shield. Holmes became a lean grey unicorn, and refused to use a pseudonym. This caused us some severe difficulties later in our investigation, although I shall not elucidate them just now. Holmes's cutie mark was more understandable than my own, although it was another feature that brought us undesired attention. For his cutie mark was an inquisitive eye.

I shall have to expand this chronicle at another time. I fear its audience is too far from my usual audience and its content too fantastic for my usual publications. So I shall leave you with the most important lesson I learned in Equestria: that, even in a world where magic is _real_, the truest magic lies in friendship. In short, friendship is magic. The phrase rolls naturally on the tongue, and I assure you that Holmes and I were reminded of this again and again. So allow me to repeat it one last time, before consigning this draft to hibernation in my desk.

Friendship is magic.


End file.
